


The Tale of The Hobbit and the Dwarf

by raiyana



Series: The Dwelf series [15]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Bilbo is related to Dwarrow, Birth, Dwobbits, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Interracial Relationship, Other, Story within a Story, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:18:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: The beginning of the story of the Hobbit Adaldrida Proudfoot and her Dwarf husband, Svari.For Littlenori, who provided the inspiration. I hope it leaves you with a few questions answered.Alternatively, the story of how Bilbo is related to a Dwarf.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Littlenori](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlenori/gifts).



# C1

_The first time Vár met Athalrún, the wife of Bombur, she thought her dull and fretful. The dwarrowdam was quite unlike the brash and self-assured Vár, though she had no reason to be so soft, Vár thought. A blacksmith by trade, Athalrún was well-muscled, even if her bone structure seemed slightly too fine for such a rough craft. Whenever Dís had her visit, Vár would grit her teeth and simply suffer through listening to Athalrún’s soft voice. Eventually, however, she realized that Athalrún didn’t need to be tough, that her softer ways were not a lack of strength, but simply the way Athalrún made her life function. It only took one dinner at Bombur’s house for Vár to realise that Athalrún’s soft manner was a velvet glove covering a core of steel. Corralling her brood – Vár had no other word for it – Athalrún was a general directing her troops and the dwarflings, even the little Borkur, who was barely more than a pebble, heeded her gentle orders._

_Vár did not truly appreciate Athalrún’s soft but steely determination until this moment, however, when she was in more pain than she could remember ever feeling before. Gimli’s birth, while dangerous to her very life, had not hurt this much, she was sure. Dís was there, like she had been for the birth of Gimli, offering whatever reassurances she could muster, while Athalrún’s soft voice became the guide Vár’s mind latched onto, squeezing their hands through the pains. The dark-haired dam’s sweet smile belied the strength of her grip._

_“Do you want to hear a story? It took my mind off the pain for a while when I had my twins,” Athalrún said quietly. Vár nodded, at this point desperate for anything that might make her think of something beside the pain coursing through her body and the worry that Vakri could not quite keep off his face. “My story begins many years ago, in the calm and quiet Shire, in the year 2700 of this Third Age of the World.” Athalrún did not let on if Vár’s grip pained her, simply squeezing back in commiseration. “This is the story of Adaldrida, my great-grandmother, who was a Hobbit.” Athalrún began, with the air of one used to telling stories to an audience. The beginning sounded like she had spoken it many times before, and a look at Blidarún, who was speedily following Vakri´s commands, proved that Athalrún’s daughter had indeed heard the story before…_

Now, Hobbits are not like us Dwarrow, aside from the fact that they too like to live underground. Not in great mountain halls, but in the soft earth. There they build smials, with curiously round shapes everywhere. Their doors are round, set into the sides of hills. Their walls curve, as the tunnels stretch from room to room. They are not cold places, for there is enough earth around them to make the temperature constant, and even a Dwarf could feel at home like that…

 _When another contraction hit, Athalrún simply smiled and continued weaving images in her audience’s mind. Vár had to admit that it did help her focus on something else. Glóin’s letter from Rivendell had described Master Baggins’ home to her, though he had called it a burrow, which had made her think of_ _rabbits. Athalrún’s words, however, made these…smials… seem quite nice._

…Hobbits have a love of growing things, for they are close to Yavannah’s creatures, and their fields and orchards bear much food. This shows in the Hobbits themselves, who are small, plump creatures. They do not have much time for other races, and are quite content to keep themselves to themselves, and enjoy their peaceful lands.

Adaldrida was a Hobbit, from the family Proudfoot. She possessed a lovely voice, and could often be found in the local tavern singing. Hobbits like good ale and good music, much like us, which was why Adaldrida caught the eye of Svari, a wandering smith from the Blue Mountains. Svari was a Dwarf, a blacksmith by trade, and he had found that Hobbits were willing to pay him well for making kitchen utensils and gardening tools, but that they were not much fond of any blade larger than a bread knife. He was sometimes paid in coin, though mostly the Hobbits existed in a system of bartering, goods for services. I told you that Hobbits are fond of food, which means they are mostly soft, even those who develop muscles from farm-work. They do not have the strength of a Dwarf, however, and Dwarrow were rare in those parts, for this was before the people of Erebor were driven to wandering by a Dragon. Svari was a good-looking Dwarf, with a rich red beard, decorated with iron and silver beads his sister had made. When he worked in his small forge, the Hobbit girls would stare and titter, though they were often too shy to speak to him.

Svari worked in several Hobbit towns, spending a moon here and there, but his favourite inn was in Hobbiton, and it was called the Green Dragon. I don’t know why, for Dragons had never been seen in the Shire – and there is no such thing as a green Dragon anyhow. The Green Dragon Inn, however, was where Adaldrida sung on Mersdays, earning a few coppers for her voice. Svari liked to listen to her, even if the Hobbit songs were mostly about growing things and enjoying the fruits of the earth. Sometimes, Adaldrida would dance, something Hobbits do differently to us indeed. Where we use dance to show off intricate and difficult footwork, Hobbit dances involve a lot of jumping about, Svari thought, though it did look fun.

Now, after he had been in the Shire for three moons, it came time for the Hobbits’ Mid-Summer Party. This is held on during the summer days and begins on First Litheday, the longest day of the year, in a large field known as the Party Field, where grows the largest tree you may ever see, the Party Tree. This massive ancient has grown in the Shire since before anyone can remember, and the feasting is spectacular. Many weddings happen in those days, for it is said to be good luck to marry under the Party Tree, especially at midsummer. Svari was happy, for he had plenty work in the days leading up to the party, even if none of the giggling Hobbit lasses had the courage to ask him to the Party. The elder Hobbits were quick to hire him to help move benches and other heavy things around, for Dwarrow are far stronger than Hobbits, even if Svari was not much larger than a Hobbit himself.

On the day of the Party, he put on his best clothes, which the tailor had made for him in return for a lovely set of new needles. He had to wear his old boots, however, for Hobbits rarely wear shoes, their soles tough like leather. When he made his way to the Party Field, the feasting was already begun, and Svari was welcomed heartily by the few Hobbits he called friends. The food was more than plentiful, even for the appetite of a hungry smith, and the music lively.

When it came time for dancing, Svari did not join, firstly because he did not know the steps, and secondly because no one asked him. He watched, for over an hour, his gaze once again caught by the energetic pleasingly plump form of Adaldrida Proudfoot. Now, Adaldrida noticed the Dwarf watching her, or at least her friends did and giggled about it, daring her to ask him to dance. She did. Svari, who was feeling a little lost with all the hopping about, declined at first. When she asked him why, he mumbled something she didn’t catch, but Adaldrida simply laughed and told him that she would teach him a simple dance.

They ended up dancing together all of that night and the two nights of celebration that followed.

 

When summer ended, Svari moved on, but before he left, he promised Adaldrida that he would return to her in a year and bring her back to the mountains – as his bride.”

 

_Vár groaned. At the foot of the bed, Blidarún smiled, nodding at her mother. The story was helping Vár stay calm, which was good for the babies. With another squeeze of her hand, Athalrún continued spinning her tale._

“…Now, Svari, son of Biuri, was an honest Dwarf, he liked to think. Some even called him a noble Dwarf, for he paid his debts on time and worked hard for his family. He spent the whole long winter cooling his heels in Ered Luin, and talking the ears off of his elder sisters about the Queen among Hobbits he loved. When spring finally came, Svari could not wait to leave, but his elder sister, Arnhilda, who was the family matriarch at the time, said that they did not yet have enough money to pay a proper bride-price for this Adaldrida. So Svari had to wait another two moons, which meant **‘afkalm**[1] was almost over by the time he made it to the Shire. His sisters, Arnhilda and Solveig, had both decided to accompany him, to aid in negotiations with Adaldrida’s family.

When they reached the Green Dragon inn, where Svari had first seen Adaldrida, **‘afkalm** was over. The three Dwarrow did notice that they got a few dark looks from the Hobbits, but nothing could quench Svari’s desire to run to fetch his beloved. His sister, older by about three decades, chuckled in her beard, but she let the young Dwarf run off while they had an ale in the inn.

When Svari made it to the round yellow door of Adaldrida’s smial, wearing his finest clothes and jewellery, he felt nervous, but steeled himself. He knocked. The Hobbit who answered the door, a sour old lady by the looks of her, sneered at him. Svari did not let that diminish his joy.

“I am Svari, son of Biuri, of Clan Broadbeam,” he bowed politely. “I’m here for Adaldrida.” He said, trying to make a good impression on Adaldrida’s relative. The old lady hobbit snorted. She leaned heavily on her walking stick as she looked him over.  

“I know what you’re here for alright.” She sneered with poorly veiled hostility, but she stepped aside, to let Svari in the door and into the sitting room, where a fire was lit. The old lady took a seat in a battered arm chair, picking up her knitting and saying nothing. The silence stretched. And stretched. Just before Svari would have said something, perhaps asked why Adaldrida wasn’t coming, another Hobbit burst through the door. Svari could only stare. The Hobbit, a corpulent male with giant feet, was out of breath and sweaty. He thrust a bundle at Svari.

“This is what you’re here for, Dwarf. Take your bastard and leave!” he spat. Svari stared. In his arms, swaddled carefully in soft yellow linen, was a tiny child. Svari fell in love, gobsmacked as he stared into her soft brown eyes, a perfect replica of his own.

“Nathith”, he breathed, awed. The little girl’s arm fought its way free of the blanket, wrapping her tiny fist around the braid in his beard. Svari looked up at the corpulent Hobbit, who was Adaldrida’s father. “Where is my Adaldrida?” he asked. “I have come for my wife.” The old lady Hobbit said nothing, but Adaldrida’s father spluttered with rage.

“I _said_ : take the bastard child and leave. Adaldrida will not see you!” Svari could feel his heart breaking, but beyond that, he also felt that something was wrong. If Adaldrida did not want him any longer, so be it, but surely the pebble was too young to be taken from her mother?

“Can I not speak to her? I want her to meet my sisters.” Svari begged. Adaldrida’s father began trying to shove him out of the door. Now, Hobbits are nowhere near strong enough to overpower a Dwarf, but Svari did not want to fight his beloved’s father.

 

Elsewhere in the smial, Adaldrida was trapped. She was screaming and fighting, but her two elder cousins held her firmly. Her father had taken her daughter, to do what with she did not know, but she feared that he would drown the pebble as he had told her he would more than once in his drunken rages. No matter how much Adaldrida pleaded with him, told him that Svari had sworn to return and marry her proper, he would not calm down. In his eyes, his beautiful daughter had been defiled beyond cleansing and the best thing to do was get rid of any and all evidence of their terrible shame and then move far away and pretend it never happened.

When her cousins tired of holding her down, they left her in the windowless room her father had built specifically for her when he learned that she was having a half-Dwarf child. She hammered on the door, but the cousins that had wrestled away her baby and locked her in, had left. She cried for her grandmother, but the old lady could not hear her, being more than a little deaf.

 

Back at the inn, Solveig and Arnhilda were feeling decidedly unwelcome. The Hobbits, who mistook them for males, were grumbling darkly and in low mutters. The innkeeper had deigned to serve them, but he had told them that they’d best leave quickly.

 

Dejected, Svari made his way back towards the inn. He had not wanted to draw steel against Adaldrida’s father, even if the Hobbit’s rage unnerved him. In his arms, his daughter slept peacefully. Her tiny hand was still wrapped around his beard braid, which Svari accepted as proof that she knew who he was; after all, that is what pebbles do for comfort. When he had made it half way down the street however, someone hailed him from behind. It was the old lady hobbit from before, panting from her run. Svari grabbed her arm, for the old lady was unsteady without her walking stick. “I think he’s going to kill her! Please, please save my granddaughter!” she cried, tears running down her wrinkled face, but Svari was already running back towards the smial, his axe jumping into his hand of its own volition it seemed.

“Go to the inn and fetch my sisters,” he yelled back at her. With one arm cradling the pebble, and the other brandishing his weapon, Svari burst through the open door. In the long hallway from which the rooms branched off, he saw a sight that made his blood run cold. Adaldrida was being towed by the hair by her father, crying and screaming at him to give her back her baby. Svari did not even think before attacking. With a swing of his axe, careful even in his frenzied fear, he put himself between Adaldrida and her father, who was left holding a severed hank of hair. “You will not lay hand on my wife!” he shouted, crowding Adaldrida back against the curved wall. She clung to him, still weeping incoherently about the baby.

 

This was the scene that met Arnhilda, Daughter of Arnveig, when she opened the door of the smial. Her younger brother Svari, holding a small bundle with an arm sticking out of it, a crying hobbit girl and a red-faced fat hobbit across from her axe-wielding brother. Behind her came her younger sister, Solveig, who was carrying the girl’s grandmother. They had just decided to leave, when the old lady hobbit almost fell into the inn, screaming for Svari’s sisters. At once, they jumped to their feet, and with a low Khuzdul command from Arnhilda set off. Solveig caught the old hobbit round the waist on their way out, for she had obviously spent all her strength on delivering her warning. She still managed to direct them to her son’s smial, though it was largely unnecessary with all the screaming going on inside.

“Svari!” Arnhilda shouted. The three all turned to face her, wearing full battle-armour and wielding a massive broad-axe, and far more menacing than any Dwarf the Hobbits had met before. Adaldrida’s father squeaked in fear and fainted. “What are you doing, nadad, drawing steel against your intended’s family?!” Arnhilda exclaimed, staring aghast at the tableau.

“But Nana, he was going to kill her.” Svari defended himself. Behind him, Adaldrida kept crying incoherently. She stepped forward, pushing past Svari’s guard.

“Where is she?!” She screamed at her father, who was still unconscious and did not answer. “Where is my daughter!”  Svari turned back quickly, hooking his axe back onto his belt. Svari awkwardly wrapped the arm still holding his axe around her shoulders.

“Hush, love, hush,” he crooned, handing her the small pebble. Adaldrida burst into renewed tears. “He gave her to me.” Wrapping his arms around both mother and child, Svari simply rocked Adaldrida until she stopped crying. When she calmed down enough to realise what was going on, she copied her daughter’s move, pulling on his beard braid and making him bend to kiss her deeply.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed with a grin.

“Of course, I am, amrâlimê. I swore to you that I would return with money to pay your bride-price, did I not.” Svari smiled, hugging her close. “I want you to meet my sisters, Arnhilda and Solveig, who have come with me to negotiate with your family.” Both female hobbits gaped. Solveig sheepishly set down the elderly lady hobbit, who patted her arm distractedly.

“But they have beards!” Adaldrida said, then blushed hard and apologised for being so rude. Solveig laughed.

“There’ll be no negotiations, Masters Dwarf.” The old Hobbit said sharply. When the three Dwarrow began to protest, she held up her hand. “You will take Adaldrida and your child away from here, today, Master Dwarf. You will treat her better than a Queen, and you will keep her as happy as you may in your mountains. There is no negotiation needed. Keep your money, use it to build my granddaughter a house, and be a good father to the little one. Leave, before my son wakes. He will not challenge you.”

“Thank you, Grandmama!” Adaldrida cried, throwing herself into Svari’s arms.

 

_Vár smiled tiredly. Athalrún’s story was not finished, but the calm blacksmith was interrupted by Vakri’s order to push. With Dís on one side, and Athalrún on the other, Vár bore down against the pressure._

_Later, as she lay tiredly with her new-born daughter in her arms, the tears came. The little boy had been born, tiny and pale, with no breath in his body. Dís had held her through the first realisation, while Athalrún had cleaned the little life that never was._

_“My second daughter was the same,” she said, almost silently as she handed Vár the lifeless bundle. “I called her Athalrós. So pretty, with her copper hair… but her sister lived. And I am thankful for my Fjelarún every day.”_

_“His name is Glovarin.” Dis and Athalrún both nodded. Vakri left in sombre silence, Blidarún following. The Singers would come, but for now, **Khazdâna anugâlnigi ôra manaddadâna** **[2]** shared the pain of longing for those who were not present. “She will be Várdís.” She will be **Kerthâr bunmul** **[3]**._

 

 

[1] Crown Moon.

[2] _Fellowship of the Dwarrowdams (those who are) Left Behind_

[3] Graceful runes


	2. Menegilda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of Adaldrida's tale, as seen through the eyes of Menegilda the Hobbit.

# C2

Menegilda was old, for a Hobbit, and she knew it. Approaching 90 summers, she had lived a good life in the Shire. She had married well, the only son of the wealthy Proudfoot family, and had in general lacked for nothing. She had raised her daughters – Proudfoots (or Proudfeet? Even after almost 65 years of marriage to one of them, Menegilda was unsure about the answer to that question) believed that it was the mother’s purview to raise dutiful daughters, while the father brought up the sons. This meant that Menegilda, who had been born a Baggins, another well-off Hobbiton family in the upper echelons of Hobbit society, and who had inherited all the proper Baggins sense from _both_ her parents, thankyouverymuch, did not know her sons as well as she did her daughters. She knew them as proud men, a trait of their father’s family, for sure, whose dedication to the family honour was inscrutable. Before the trials of her youngest granddaughter Adaldrida, Menegilda had considered this a pleasant and even commendable trait. Afterwards, she had had very many and very stern words for both her husband’s ghost _and_ her husband’s sons.

Menegilda had left the smial her husband inherited from his parents after his death, preferring to live out her last years in the company of her staid cousin, the redoubtable Mrs. Wilibald Hornblower, who was affectionately known as “The fire-blower” among those unfortunate enough to feel her wrath. The Proudfoot smial – a prime piece of Hobbiton real estate – had gone to her eldest son Rudigar Proudfoot, along with his eleven children and a few of their spouses. Her Peregrin might have been an only child, but he had fathered five fauntlings, three boys and two girls, and Rudigar’s unruly bunch had a mass of cousins spread over Hobbiton and nearby areas. Orgulas himself, her youngest son, had had Adaldrida as well as two older boys, who had both moved away – one marrying into the Hornblowers of the Southfarthing and the other marrying a Took girl from Tookland, quite respectable matches both – while her daughters had provided an even eight grandchildren each, and her second son had – at least they were supposed to be his – four children.

At first, she tried to reason with Orgulas, but he proved as intractably stubborn as a Dwarf[1]. Menegilda had not even known about the coming babe until it had almost arrived, something that later haunted her mind, but as soon as she did hear, she grabbed her walking stick and a small bag of clothes and moved into her son’s smial. During the days she spent in his smial, which had suffered since the death of his wife, Asphodel, she tried to spend time with Adaldrida and the new fauntling. If the Dwarf was as good as his word, a rather big if, of course, were not as dire as Orgulas believed, Menegilda thought, and even if he wasn’t… well, Adaldrida wouldn’t be the first young mother to have a hasty wedding to a lad who would become a father on the same day he became a husband. When Orgulas had learned of his daughter’s circumstances, he had had his brother’s sons – who resembled him in most ways, to the point of evil tongues wagging about Orgulas and his brother’s wife – build a small, dark, windowless room, into which he had tossed Adaldrida. Being the youngest, and unmarried, Adaldrida had been the one to keep up with the household chores since her mother’s death, and – aside from Mersday performances at the Green Dragon – Adaldrida rarely left her father’s smial except to go to market. Menegilda had not thought that particular, believing the lass – her 34th grandchild, in fact – to be one of those Hobbits who are happier puttering around their homes and enjoying their own company. Such Hobbits were relatively few and far between, but it was not unheard of, at least. What Menegilda found, upon meeting her 34th grandchild for the first time in roughly ten years, however, was not a willing loner. No, Adaldrida had lived for the days when she went to the market, the nights when she was permitted to sing at the Green Dragon. She was full of stories of ‘her’ Dwarf, who – ‘ _aside from the unfortunate business with Madam Proudfoot’s granddaughter, beg pardon, Ma’am, was a nice chap, helpful sort, ye ken?_ ’ – the people of Hobbiton genuinely liked. Apparently Svari – and Menegilda thought it an odd foreign name, but her own name[2] had always been a bit of a mouthful, perhaps Svari was a nickname? – was more than dreamy to her infatuated granddaughter. His beard – which was the colour of her favourite fall apples – was so soft and intricately braided and decorated, his eyes – ‘ _the gentlest brown you ever did see, grandmama_!’ – were deep and thoughtful and his voice – ‘ _oh, he could charm the birdies down’_ – made Adaldrida weak at the knees. Menegilda knew a besotted fool when she saw one, and Adaldrida certainly was besotted.

When the faunt came, at last, there had still been no word from the Dwarf, and Menegilda was beginning to lose hope that he would prove to be as good as her granddaughter claimed. Orgulas, who had always had a temper, even as a boy, had picked up a bottle more often than a teacup during the whole time Menegilda was in residence, which worried his old mother. The times she would find her granddaughter clutching her child fearfully, tears trailing down her cheeks, made her dread the future. Menegilda heard the threats her son levelled against his only daughter, but her attempts to sway his mind were thwarted or rebuffed at every turn.

 

The day was like any other, until the knock came. Later, Menegilda would liken it to the herald of doom, even if the results would prove to good, but at the time she walked slowly to answer – Orgulas being busy drinking his breakfast in a less-than-perfectly-hidden corner somewhere – leaning heavily on her stick. The smial, which had been warm and homey when Asphodel yet remained there, had turned slightly dank and more than a bit damp in spots since her absence. Orgulas could not be bothered with the upkeep, and no one else seemed to care aside from Adaldrida, who was unable to do the necessary tasks to winter-proof the smial. The damp was not good for Menegilda’s joints, and, after a rather unforgettable visit from Mrs. Wilibald Hornblower – who had pronounced the half-Dwarf child ‘positively delightful, dear, such fine hair already.’ and made Adaldrida cry with happiness – Menegilda had received a large parcel of woollen cardigans and scarves as well as a finely carved walking stick. Mrs. Hornblower had raised pipeweed farmers, of course, and among them more than a few pipe-carvers too, so the stick was finely decorated with a pattern of tobacco leaves. Menegilda did not smoke, but the gift was so thoughtful and useful that she could not bear to declare it a mathom.

Getting her first look at the Dwarf, Menegilda kept herself stern and rather brisk – behaviour modelled after the formidable Mrs. Wilibald Hornblower, who had had to look over potential suitors for eight daughters. She noticed that her cool reception put little more than a slight dent in the Dwarf’s eagerness, but what cinched the deal for her was the look in his eyes when he held the babe for the first time. That was not a Dwarf who had known he was leaving behind a pregnant sweetheart. The second thing that convinced Menegilda was the look on his face when Orgulas threw him out of the smial.

When the screaming started – Adaldrida’s room opening allowed even the somewhat deaf Menegilda to hear her granddaughter’s wailing – her mind was made up instantly. Forgetting her stick entirely, and still trailing one skein of knitting yarn, Menegilda threw herself out the door, hollering after the Dwarf. Her subsequent run to the Green Dragon – thankfully, not a vast distance – which ended in an undignified collapse, was the most frightened she had ever been. That is, until minutes later, after the one Dwarf had picked her up off the floor and sprinted after the other - and were they really ladies underneath the beards?! – when she saw Svari’s oldest sister, striding through the door of Orgulas’ smial like the wrath of a vengeful Valar, and caught sight of the setup inside. Through Adaldrida’s wailing, Menegilda realised that the situation was far worse than her granddaughter had let on and she made a hasty decision.

“You will take Adaldrida and your child away from here, today, Master Dwarf. You will treat her better than a Queen, and you will keep her as happy as you may in your mountains. There is no negotiation needed. Keep your money, use it to build my granddaughter a house, and be a good father to the little one. Leave, before my son wakes. He will not challenge you.” She would beat him with her walking stick if she had to, Menegilda swore, scowling at her unconscious son. Adaldrida’s ecstatic joy made her feel slightly better, but it was not until she had helped her fill her glory chest from the different linen cupboards – and snuck in a few pieces of silver tableware for good measure – that Menegilda felt at peace. Watching Svari with his new wife made her long for her own Peregrin – obviously misguided in his method of childrearing, but she _had_ loved him. Waving goodbye to her granddaughter, Orgulas having slunk off somewhere at the sight of the two heavily armed Dwarrow, Menegilda knew she had done well.

Two years later, when Adaldrida returned, with her copper-haired daughter a bundle of energy and laughter as well as a tiny bump under her fine dress and holding the arm of her equally besotted Dwarf, Menegilda _knew_ she had made the right choice. Orgulas, whose drinking had only increased after his daughter ‘ran off with a no-good Dwarf’ as he raved to anyone who stood still long enough to listen, had died the winter before, falling into the river on his way home from the inn. That he had no need to cross the river to get home made his death slightly more interesting, but no one actually missed him. Menegilda had returned to the smial she shared with Mrs. Wilibald Hornblower, though she could feel her years catching up with her.

 

Menegilda Proudfoot, née Baggins died at the age of 93 summers.

Adaldrida Proudfoot returned for the funeral, which was the last time she was seen in the Shire.

Her husband, the Dwarf Svari, however, as well as his two ‘brothers’, were seen in the Northfarthing in 2747, at what would become known as the Battle of Green Fields, where they helped Adaldrida’s nephew Bandobras “Bull-roarer” Took defeat a force of Orcs and Goblins.   


Timeline

2681 : Svari leaves Adaldrida.

2682: Dwobbit daughter is born, Svari returns to Hobbiton. Adaldrida leaves the Shire. Her daughter is given the name Athalrós, because Svari’s family – a matriarchal line – always names girl-children with elements from the mother’s name. This is continued until Athalrún’s time, except for her daughter Bumba, who was named for her father, because he missed her birth.

2684: Adaldrida and her family return to the Shire to visit. Adaldrida is pregnant again.

2686: Menegilda dies.

2744: Athalrós has her first child, a son, called Hornbori.

2747: Battle of Greenfields.

2750: Athalrós’s daughter is born, named Athalhilda in honour of her great-aunt Arnhilda, who died that year fighting a stray orc pack.

2770: Smaug sacks Erebor.

2815: Athalhilda’s daughter, Athalrún, is born.

2890: Bolbur, Athalrún’s oldest child, is born.

2895: Blidarún, Athalrún’s second child, is born.

2911: Blákur is born

2915: Fjelarún and Athalrós the second are born. Athalrós is still-born.

2935: Borkur is born

2941: Bomba is born

 

 

[1] Menegilda had never actually met a Dwarf, nor had she felt that this was a flaw in her character, but she _had_ heard the expression, and it seemed to fit Orgulas perfectly.

[2] In Spanish, it means Maid service, but it was apparently a Tolkien used name for a female Hobbit, I’m informed. Sadly, neither Mene(Meanie) or Gilda(gilded) seem probable nicknames for a lady of substance like Menegilda Proudfoot, née Baggins, so Menegilda is stuck with her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is the explanation for why Athalrún has used the story of Great-Uncle Bandobras as a bedtime tale for her children.


	3. Menegilda's Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Bilbo is related to Dwarrow.

Bandobras Took is Athalrún's 2nd Cousin once removed, while Bilbo is her 3rd Cousin thrice removed. I haven't worked out where Menegilda fits in the Baggins tree, but the relation on that side is more distant than Bilbo's Took-side.

**Author's Note:**

> For Littlenori, because you inspired me to actually think about the story of a character I had intended to be a throwaway reference, damn you. Also because the thought wouldn't leave me alone at 3AM.


End file.
